


put your burning hands on my pyre (it's old growth, darling, and slow to catch)

by SandpiperBand



Series: Kindle [1]
Category: Resident Evil (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Claire POV, F/F, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, ITS ABOUT THE YEARNING, Pre-Relationship, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Wingfic, and the gentle hand touches, learning to be tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandpiperBand/pseuds/SandpiperBand
Summary: Alice has hangups about being touched; Claire does too.Which makes it rather difficult for both of them to cram into the Hummer, wings and all, and expect not to be pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. After all, Claire's wings are naturally on the bigger side, and Alice's are so monstrously large you could almost mistake them for an angel's. That is, of course, if angels had ashy wings, psychic powers, and unfairly attractive smirks.
Relationships: Alice/Claire Redfield
Series: Kindle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166522
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	put your burning hands on my pyre (it's old growth, darling, and slow to catch)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of a 4-day mad writing sprint. I'm planning to pick away at it, but this is all I wanted to guarantee was posted. I figured it's better to have it out here and incomplete, rather than be mothballed in my documents. So, uh, here you go! Alice and Claire have been haunting me for the last few months since I binged the movies and I finally had to do something for them. This is my first fanfic ever and really my first significant bit of writing in a while, so I know there's a lot of mistakes, but I hope you enjoy it!

Claire has three things left from Before: her green baseball cap (gift from Chris), her Hummer (gift to herself), and a picture of the two of them (gift from her parents), blurry from both the initial shutter and more recent creasings. She keeps it tucked in the glovebox; she used to keep it on her, but it came close to getting blood-soaked on multiple occasions and Claire decided she’d rather keep it clean than keep it for sure. 

It’s them at the lake by their house, swim trunked and bandeau’d, mid-jump into the cool water. Claire’s wings weren’t totally grown in, and a bit lighter in color; more tan than red, still sort of orange. Chris’s are, of course, fully grown and big, chocolate turning black at the tips. Claire’s facing away from the camera, fully intent on the lake, but Chris is half-turned, grinning at their parents behind the shutter. Claire traces the edges of them every other night, scared that she’ll rub the ink out of his face but even more terrified to forget it. 

The Hummer is one thing she’s glad to have kept, both for sentimentality as well as practical reasons. It’s a reliable machine, big enough to hold all her supplies and a few rifles, with a decent backseat for the nights when she can’t just fall asleep at the wheel and really does need to stretch out. She’s extra glad she bought the large model; the Redfields are a naturally big-winged bunch, being mostly comprised of condors, vultures, and eagles, so she’d initially bought it with their bulk in mind, but nowadays, being stuck in the car most of the day, Claire treasures every extra inch of space. 

Even so, when Alice meets her at the Hummer for her first day as a part of the Convoy, Claire takes one look at the dusty masses at her back and knows Alice won’t fit in the front seat, even with its extra space; hell, she’ll probably barely fit in the back. Even so, Alice takes one look of her own at the backseat—already half occupied by K-Mart—and instead squeezes herself into shotgun without complaint or comment. Claire can’t decide if the feeling buried under Alice’s poker face as she climbs in is coolly logical— she’ll be better shot from the front— or honest loneliness. Either way, the blonde’s wings are a bit suffocating in their size. Alice shoves them out of the way of the windows as best she can, but her attempt to preserve visibility results in their wings near pinned together. Claire doesn’t mind much more than she would if she were standing in a packed crowd, but she can feel Alice fighting the sensation, tensing in unfamiliarity, then relaxing into the gentle contact as she loses track before freezing again in— surprise, maybe, or even embarrassment. Perhaps from the now bone-deep fear of contact with a stranger after spending years touching only in the briefest moments of fistfights. Claire tries to keep still and doesn’t mention it.

Between Claire, Alice, and K-Mart, the Hummer is more cramped than it’s ever been, but the closeness is a comfort. If she closes her eyes she can almost pretend it’s another family road trip, all the Redfields sardined into the Hummer, wings bumping together and so tangled they can’t start to tell where their own feathers end. Even though K-Mart’s wings are still growing in (the wrong color for a Redfield, they’re blindingly blonde), with Alice hulking in the corner, her dark wings bigger than anyone’s she’s ever seen, Claire feels the most at home she’s been in the five years since Before. She puts her eyes on the road and tries to keep herself still, to not lean into the deceptively familiar wings at her side, but she’s only human, and if her wings dip of their own accord once or twice to chase Alice’s contact, well, neither woman will mention it. 

Alice nudges her back, once, right before they stop for the night, and Claire has to look away before Alice can see the smallest bit of a victory smile on Claire’s face.

**

“I meant to say it earlier,” Carlos begins, coming up to her as she sits by the fire, “but I’m glad you’ve still got your wings.” 

Claire is sitting a few feet away, tucking into some peaches. Technically she’s talking with Mikey, but they’d lapsed into silence anyway, so she turns to listen. 

Alice snorts, sets her fork into the empty can. “These aren’t mine anymore,” she rasps.  
Carlos frowns, crouches, opens his own can. Green beans. “What do you mean? You’re infected and they’re still attached to you, I’d consider that as owning as it gets.” His hand reaches out as he talks, slowly, soothingly, but her wings flinch violently away before he can touch them. Carlos pulls back and has the good grace to look sorry.

“I’m not human anymore,” Alice says, voice flat. “Neither are they. They’re just another tool, complementary of Umbrella.”

Claire glances at Alice’s wings, studying them in the firelight. She’s gathered, despite Carlos and LJ’s tight-lip policy on talking of breakout day, as well as from the woman herself, that Alice’s wings, as well as her miracles, were consequences of her infection. Though Claire hates to admit it, the wings were unnatural. One could excuse the coloring; they were deep brown on the top and slightly lighter on the underside, dusty creme peeking through where possible. The very edges are tipped in a brighter yellow, and the entirety of her wings are speckled with both light and dark splotches so thick in their pattern that even if her feathers were not unkempt and washed-out looking, you’d think they were covered in soot and ash. Their size, however, was not so easily excusable. The average wingspan is a little less than double one’s arm span and is sufficient to lift off the ground and power glide. Claire’s are a good bit bigger, a trait she owes to both their shape and her family’s history. Their size and boxy shape let her, with enough liftoff, ride thermals with only a little trouble. Alice, however, must be capable of true flight. Claire has no way to know how big her wings originally were, but regardless, it is undoubtedly the virus’s influence that they have swelled to such angelic proportions. They are each easily fifteen feet across, probably more. Alice has them tucked as far behind her as she can get them, but they still loom over and around her, impossibly large, almost appearing as though she’d taken an entire grizzly bear and propped it on her back, its paws hanging over her shoulders. 

She probably could kill a grizzly, easy, Claire thinks, tuning back into the conversation. Though evidently she’s caught them in a lull between remarks. When her eyes refocus, both Carlos and Alice are staring into the fire, faces a little tense. 

“I’m just-” Carlos sighs. “I’m just glad you’re back. We all thought you’d gone off to die.”

Alice chuckles darkly. “No, I wouldn’t. I can’t. There’s still too much to do.”

“Still?”

“Still.” she rubs at the back of her head, massages the ends of the delicate vertebrae under the skin. “Umbrella’s roots go deep.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to take a few days to breathe. You deserve it, Alice.” He glances at her, shifts his hands. “Nobody should be alone for that long.”

“No,” Alice concedes, “they shouldn’t.” There’s more on her tongue; her lips are still parted, but she looks over and catches Claire in her staring, and whatever words she might have said instead turn into a raised eyebrow. Claire’s face flushes, and she looks away, tries to look busy. That just makes Alice smirk, and Claire cannot help but watch her lips stretch into their smug smile before she excuses herself, brushing past Mikey in her haste. 

Alice watches her leave, considers for a moment, then turns to Carlos. “I’ll spend a week with the convoy, and we’ll see after that.”

Carlos nods, relief easy to read in his eyes. “That’s all I ask. You might like it.”

Alice smiles. “We’ll see.”

***

Claire is half asleep before Alice’s knocking wakes her up. She starts in her seat, smacking her knee into the steering wheel before she comes to her senses, then still does a double-take upon seeing Alice in the window. She takes a breath to steady herself before cracking the door open.

“Hey,” Alice rasps, and Claire wonders if she’s doing it on purpose or if her voice is just like that. 

“Hey yourself,“ Claire returns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just was wondering where I should sleep?” She holds up her bedroll with a shrug. “I can sleep on the perimeter if you want me to. Away from the rest.”

Claire opens her mouth, then pauses. Yes, the woman was undoubtedly a loaded gun, full of unknown powers, but she’d also saved their lives. “Uh, you could sleep in here?”

Alice blinks; she hadn’t been expecting that. “In there, with you?” she gestures to the backseat. 

Claire blanks for a second at the unintentional suggestion. “No, no, you can have it to yourself.  
I’m good up here. You’ll need the space anyway.”

Alice smiles and climbs into the backseat, stretching out as fully as she can, lying facing the seatback in order to give her wings room. Her left fills up the foot room and her right pools on top of its twin, half-curled over Alice, obscuring all but the top of her shaggy blonde mop and the edges of her boots. Claire’s own wings are pulled behind the chair; she had also tried to spread them out, but she tucks them in to give Alice more room. As she pulls away, she hears the soft slide of feathers behind her and then a soft pressure against her wings. Claire glances back at Alice, but she’s still facing away, seemingly dead asleep except for her right wing, which is reaching out to chase Claire’s. She turns back around and hides her smile, letting her wings relax and feeling Alice shift back again, their wings coming to rest comfortably against each other. Claire closes her eyes, drinking in the sensation. She tries to remember the last time anyone’s touched her wings; it’s common courtesy not to touch, especially nowadays. She hasn’t touched this much since Before. She doesn’t think about why she’s letting it happen now.

Alice lies awake for a while. She’s not used to hearing someone else breathing. She’s not used to touching. She tries not to admit it to herself, but she’d acted before she could think, wings reaching out in a quiet plea, and now she can’t deny it: she’s lonely. Five years of the desert was enough to break Alice Abernathy.

Claire is lonely too. Alice knows that for sure now, and she is sorry for it. After all, it’s her fault.

***

Claire wakes to an empty car. Well, not entirely true; Alice is only halfway out the door, glancing guiltily at Claire as she hears her awaken. Claire turns to face her and smiles, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. 

“You don’t have to sneak out, you know. You’re allowed to sleep out of the open.”

“I didn’t want to bother.” Alice shifts in her stance, halfway out the car, her wings still inside, pouring over the seat. 

“You’re not a bother, Alice. Scary as hell, but you saved us, and the least I can do in return is put a roof over your head.”

Alice smiles, then quickly slides into a smirk as Claire speaks. “Oh? Just the roof?” her eyes twinkle, somewhere between threat and promise. “Did you have any other payment in mind?”

Claire immediately feels her cheeks begin to burn, her tongue tripping before she can even start to spit out some excuse. She looks away, ignoring Alice’s Cheshire grin when she sees the blonde’s wings, which are enough to draw the color from her face. 

Alice’s wings, the seat, and the floor beneath are covered in shed feathers and down, blanketing the metal floor of the hummer in ashy plumes. It’s an awfully familiar sight; one that makes Claire’s stomach drop. The infected shed their wings almost immediately, creating piles of shed feathers and leaving behind flapping pink stumps. Claire was staring at firm evidence that she’d just invited a monster into the heart of her caravan. Alice had started dropping and sooner or later she’d snap and kill them all.

“Claire?” she’s been quiet for too long.

“Carlos said you were infected.” it’s a statement, not a question. She’s reaching for the Glock she leaves in the door. It’s her mistake; she’ll take care of it. 

Alice’s eyes immediately lose their mirth, growing cold and hard. “I may be infected, but I promise I’m not turning.” 

“Then why the hell are you shedding like you were bitten an hour ago?”

“Claire, trust me.” Alice gently pushes the gun back down; Claire hadn’t even realized she’d raised it all the way. “They shed when I use my powers, but they grow back. See?” Alice unfurls one long wing. It snakes around the confines of the hummer, the tips of her primaries ending up spread across the windshield. Claire stares at Alice for a second longer before looking at her wing. She’d spoken the truth, or something close to it; her wings are still fully feathered. There’s not a trace of pink flesh peeking through. Her jaw drops a little. Five years had taught every survivor to be paranoid of shed feathers; dropping anything from a primary to a tug of down was seen as bad luck or an omen of worse things. 

And yet here was Alice, crouching in a pile big enough to feather a small child, still alive and sane. Claire lets out her breath in a shudder. 

“I’m not human anymore, but I’m not dangerous. Well-” Alice’s teeth flash at that, her grin wolflike, “at least, I’m not contagious.”

“You’re a miracle,” Claire breathes, hand reaching up before she can stop herself. Alice’s wings twitch away, but much less so than last night, and Claire’s hand sinks into her coverts. The ashy feathers are stiffer than usual and beat to hell. Alice obviously hasn’t been caring for them; their only saving grace is probably the fact that they’re entirely replaced semi-regularly. But when she sinks her fingers into the mass, she can feel the downy ends of each feather, hiding beneath the flats of their neighbors. Alice seems to have frozen under her touch; half pinned against the Hummer’s door and half guilty pleasure at the touch. Claire doesn’t notice, caught up in the reassuring feel of another’s wings and the novelty of touching Alice’s unique pair. When she focuses, Claire realizes she can actually feel the difference between the new and old feathers; the fresh quills are softer and not gritty with dust. But when her fingers brush against warm muscle, Alice finally pulls away. Claire frowns; she wanted to see if she could feel any difference in the cording. Then her mind (and manners) return to her and disappointment quickly turns to shame. 

“I-” she’d completely stepped over this woman’s boundaries, over the boundaries of common decency, not even a minute after preparing to put a bullet between her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I was-”

Alice quickly turns away, opening the door again. “I’m used to it.”

“Wait-” Claire leans forward to catch Alice’s wrist before she can scamper out the door. “I shouldn’t have touched you like that. It was rude, and I’m sorry.”

The blonde just looks down at her wrist, testing Claire’s grip. She doesn’t budge; Alice sighs and looks up. Her blue eyes are piercing, their depths belying none of her emotions. 

“Thank you,” she finally rasps. “May I go?”

Claire releases her, waits for an unsure second, then continues, “It would be good to hide the feathers before anyone else sees them. They might panic.”

Alice’s face returns to its infernal smirk. “If you’re the fastest draw in this convoy, I think I’ll be safe.”

Indignance now heats Claire’s cheeks. “Gee, sorry for giving you a chance,” she huffs. “There’s a shovel in the back. Grab it for me.”

Alice grins but retrieves the spades without comment, and the two women quickly bury the feathers out of sight. 

**

“This better not be a regular occurrence,” Claire pants, resting her head on the handle of her spade. “I don’t want to dig pits every morning.”

“It only happens when I use my powers,” Alice replied. Despite the exertion and growing heat, she was barely winded. Claire would be jealous if she didn’t pity how she got that strength. “And on some other occasions, but those are rare and much smaller.”

Claire raises an eyebrow, to which Alice shrugs, so she decides not to pursue. It’s a delicate balance, Claire is beginning to see; Alice is a guarded person and vague as hell, so getting details out of her is a difficult process. Apparently, she’d spent five years on her own, which would be plenty enough to make one both closed off and crave interaction. So Claire took baby steps towards conversation, and Alice seemed to appreciate it. 

“Y’know,” Alice began, in step with Claire on the way back to the hummer, “if you still feel bad, I’ll take a cigarette as an apology.”

Claire snorts, but she does feel a little bad and, to a lesser extent, doesn’t want Alice to leave, so she roots in the hummer for that last pack of Marlboros. There’s three left; Claire hands one to Alice before taking a second for herself, and the two women lean against the Hummer to satisfy their nicotine fix for a few minutes. Claire burns through hers a bit faster, and she regretfully throws the butt into the sand at her feet. She rings the packet out of her pocket, weighing the pros and cons of smoking it now or saving it for later. At length, she finally takes the second cigarette with a sigh, determined to savor it. A hand on hers prevents her from lighting it, however, and a second later, Alice is in front of her, taking the cigarette from her own lips and sliding it neatly between Claire’s. 

“Save it,” she rasps, and Claire barely hears her because all she can think about is the slow slide of Alice’s fingers on her lips. She can’t tell if she imagined the half-second pause, rough fingertips against chapped skin, but she knows she’ll feel the brand of Alice’s touch for the rest of the day. 

Alice just smiles, but even her usual smile is halfway to a smirk anyway, which makes it impossible to tell whether it’s genuine. “You’ll want to keep that one for later,” she says, closing the top of the Marlboro box before walking away. 

Claire leans against the Hummer, heart beating too fast for even the last of the cigarette to calm it. Alice was going to kill her. This crush was going to kill her, but dammit, she couldn’t help herself, not when Alice seemed just as desperate for her touch. 

Claire sighed, shook her head, and composed her face before she finally went to find Carlos and take stock of the day. 

**

It turns out food is running low. Dangerously low. Claire knows this, has known it for a while, but a small part of her still irrationally hopes that news will change overnight. 

A scavenging trip is necessary. Alice immediately offers to go, even going as far as to offer to go solo. Claire shakes her head and insists she take someone as a backup. Anything could happen in their apocalyptic world, and besides, she’d want help with hauling whatever they found back. Alice eventually acquiesces and sets out, Carlos and a few hopeful duffel bags in tow. Claire busies herself with checking in on everyone— she made a point of it, every day, or as much as she could, to talk with all thirty-two surviving members of the convoy. Then she checks in with her crew, makes sure everything’s running smoothly with the electricals and ambulance. She takes another stock of their supplies (a nervous habit), cleans her guns, and finally chats with K-Mart or generally helps out. By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, Claire has run out of things to distract her from Alice’s brand on her lips, still burning, so she finally sits down by the campfire, resigned to the fact that she couldn’t ignore it any longer. She sits with K-Mart and a few of the other women and helps mend holes in shirts and pants. Her own hems aren’t looking too good, but she refuses to fix them until the rest are done. It’s busywork, hardly enough to keep her mind occupied, and so she finds herself continually returning to the morning’s antics. 

Is she just finally losing it? Maybe five years of keeping a whole convoy alive and running had piled up enough stress to crack her, and now Alice, the only one who didn’t owe her a damn thing, was such an alluring idea that Claire had no idea how to deal with it. She’s done nothing but take care of her convoy; take care of people, and now that Alice doesn’t need that help, she’s stumped. Alice might want something, perhaps a little reassurance that she wasn’t alone, but she didn’t need help. She could handle herself; that much was quite clear. But when she’d reached out last night, vulnerable and quiet, Claire had felt that urge to protect and comfort surge, and it had not come down since. Alice was made of steel, but the forge of survival was not kind, and she had hidden fissures, cracks under the surface. Claire wants to find them and seal them up again, realign the edges and bring Alice together. 

K-Mart sucks in a harsh breath beside her, startling her out of her thoughts. “They’re back!” she yells, dropping her mending and sprinting for the returning pair. Claire follows her, rising more carefully, and watches Carlos and Alice approach as she follows K-Mart. The two scavengers are making a steady pace towards them, each holding a full duffel. Claire’s heart sinks with relief. She knows Carlos is capable, and Alice seems scarily competent, but it’s still a relief to see them coming back. She meets them just as they set the duffles down by the supply truck. There’s blood splattered lightly across them, but it looks too fresh to be undead. Carlos’s left arm is bandaged and Alice has her fair share of blood on her, but Claire can’t see any immediate wounds. 

“Trouble?” she asks, unzipping the duffels.

“Nothin’ we couldn’t handle,” Carlos replies. “Just half a dozen survivors who’d already used up most of their doomsday shelter.”

“Looks like they had plenty left.” The duffels are full of cans, water bottles, and ammunition. It’s enough to last them another week, or more if they pare down meals. The convoy will survive a little longer. “Good work, you two.”

Claire finally turns her attention back to the scavengers themselves. “Carlos, you should get that checked out,” she says, gesturing to his arm. “Betty shouldn’t be busy right now.” Carlos hesitates, so she swats him away. “We’ve got it handled. Go get yourself fixed up.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Although— Alice, you took some hits too, you should come with.”

“I’ll be fine,” Alice rasps, unloading cans. 

“Hey, you took a full round of buckshot to the back, and I saw it. I know you’re a superwoman, but that’s not a minor wound.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, turning to put more cans away. Her wings, folded behind her, fully cover her back, hiding any potential wounds underneath. 

Carlos frowns but walks away, knowing he won’t convince her. 

“It takes more than a few pellets to kill me,” Alice says, and Claire realizes she’s been hovering. “You can thank the T-virus for that.”

Claire clears her throat, feeling awkward. “He’s just concerned.”

“Concern gets you killed. Carlos doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ll survive.”

“It doesn’t kill you to have friends who care. That’s how this convoy has managed for so long.” 

“I’m on my own for a reason.” Alice doesn’t turn around. “People have a habit of dying around me.”

“Not just you.” that gets her to turn. “I know you probably won’t stay long, but while you’re in the convoy, it’s my job to keep you safe, just like everyone else. That includes helping you with your wounds.” 

Alice stares at her with piercing blue eyes, considering her words. Claire meets her gaze just as fiercely, as though she can impart the full weight of her sentiment by staring at the other woman. After a long minute, Alice finally looks away, shifting her wings in discomfort. Her expression barely flicks, but Claire, staring intently, sees it; the slightest pained twitch in Alice’s eyes. She looks over her side and finds her suspicion confirmed; her left wing is drooping a hair more than the other.

“You did get shot, didn’t you?” She asks, softly this time. 

Alice’s gaze flickers between Claire and the dunes around them. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I know,” Claire says. “But I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

Alice looks at her for another long minute, considering. Her gaze is no longer like a wild, spooked animal; now, it’s tentative, a little scared, and entirely human. Finally, she sighs, letting her wings drop completely. They hit the sand with a thud, sending a cloud of particles into the night breeze. 

“I can’t reach some of the shots,” she admits. Her voice is strained with the effort of admitting weakness. “I’d- I’d appreciate the help.”

Claire just smiles and reaches for the blonde’s hand, fitting their fingers together and leading her back to the Hummer. Claire doesn’t look back at her, trying not to put any more pressure on the other woman, but she can feel Alice slowly close her fingers and press back. 

Claire opens the back of the Hummer and pulls out the meager supplies kept inside, then puts down the backseat. It opens up enough space for both of them to reasonably maneuver around. Alice climbs in and begins to shed her coat and weapons, methodically stripping off her many holsters and laying them neatly to the side. Divested of her coat, Claire finally sees the blood underneath: her brown overshirt is darkened with it and riddled with a spray of tiny holes, centered around her left shoulder. Then that comes off, revealing a shredded, once-white tanktop plastered to her skin. When Alice reaches for the hem of that, Claire sucks in a little breath, and Alice, who apparently could hear everything, glances over her shoulder, Cheshire grin in place. 

“Enjoying the show?” she husks. 

Claire’s guilty blush is enough of an answer; Alice chuckles and turns away, pulling the rest of the tank top over her shoulders to reveal creamy, blood-soaked skin, rippling over the muscles of her back and wings. Claire’s eyes roam of their own accord, tracing the woman’s spine from where it emerged from her waistband to where her feathers reached up and met her hair. Curiously, they’re dark; Alice was a bleach blonde. 

“Here,” Alice murmurs, passing something to her. She accepts it without looking, fingers comfortably sliding around the handle. Wait- handle? Claire looks down.

Alice had handed her a knife. A small, sharp, and wicked thing. A skinning knife. 

“ Alice-”

“My body heals quickly, and naturally expels foreign matter,” Alice interrupts, tone clinical. “However, small particulate matter can get trapped before being fully ejected. Sometimes it has to be cut out.” She rolls her shoulders, bracing her hands on the seatback. “Hence the knife.”

“You’re asking me to cut open your back and dig out the lead pellets embedded within.”

“Well, when you put it that way-”

“ Alice, I’m not going to gut you!” Claire snaps. “I said I wanted to help, not to- not to peel you open and-”

“Claire.” Her voice is carefully level. “I can’t reach my wings very well. Either you cut the shot out, or I’m stuck with low-grade lead poisoning for the rest of my life.”

Can she even get lead poisoning?

“I-”

Alice silences her with a touch, gently but firmly grabbing her wrist and lifting it to her back. The angle is a little awkward, with her reaching behind, but Claire allows her to place her hand on her back. Her skin is warm to the touch, the blood just fresh enough to slide under her palm.

“Spread your fingers,” Alice orders. 

Claire dutifully obliges, her brain filled with too many conflicting emotions to protest anymore. Her hand is right over Alice’s shoulder blade. As her fingers slide out, she feels her pointer glide over a noticeable bump in Alice’s skin. She runs her finger over it again and feels it roll under the woman’s skin. The sensation immediately makes her feel nauseous. 

“They’re right at the surface. You barely have to cut the skin,” Alice continues, attempting to reassure her. “It’s like the world’s worst zit.”

Claire chuckles weakly. Her grip on the knife is firm, but the rest of her feels like jelly. She’s no stranger to gore; nobody could be in this apocalyptic world. Claire had put down her fair share of zombies, and even a few unfortunately infected friends. She knew the weight of a muzzle, knew how to point it at someone, say their name and not flinch when their blood splattered over her arms. This isn’t such a drastic situation, but still— taking a knife to Alice feels like butchery, not mercy. And yet Claire can’t think of another excuse; after all, they both know there’s no reasonable alternative. 

“Alright,” Claire breathes. “Let me just put a towel down first.”

Claire spends the next hour hunched over Alice’s back, arms slick with her blood, carefully cutting and pulling buckshot out of the other woman. To her credit, Alice stays still and quiet, letting out only the faintest breaths when the knife dips into her. Claire tries to make her cuts smooth and small, grabbing the lead balls and touching the muscle underneath as little as possible. By the end of it, both of them are tired; nerves rubbed raw. Claire runs her hands over Alice one last time, and, finding nothing else, lets out a relieved sigh. 

“That’s it,” she says, breaking the silence. “I think I got them all.”

Alice rolls her shoulders, shakes her wings. They shower the Hummer with sand and dust but are now lead-free. 

“Thank you,” Alice murmurs, running her own hands over her back. The cuts are small, and with her accelerated healing have already scabbed up or are practically healed, leaving only smooth skin in their wake.

Claire smiles at her, tired but happy. “You’re welcome.” She dumps the bloody towel outside of the car, planning to clean it in the morning, and grabs another rag and her canteen. She wets the rag, careful not to spill any water.

“Turn back around,” she says. 

Alice raises a suggestive eyebrow, and though Claire blushes, she holds firm; eventually, Alice obeys. Claire settles in behind her again, gently beginning to wipe the blood from her back, pulling crimson from tan with long, firm strokes. After a few minutes, Alice is relatively clean; one could never truly be clean in the desert, but her back was free of blood and her feathers weren’t stained red. Finished, Claire leans back on her heels, resting for a moment. 

“Do you want to sleep in the Hummer again?” she asks. She knows Alice will just slink out if she doesn’t offer.

“Would that be alright?”

“Sure it is. I’m offering.” She tosses the second bloody rag, then pauses. “Hell, why don’t you just sleep right here? I’ve got a couple of blankets you can use.” 

“I- sure,” Alice replies. 

“Come on— As plush as the backseat is, I know it must be cramped for you.” She digs out a couple of bankets, some more threadbare than others, and holds them out.

Alice laughs in agreement and takes them. “Well, it would be rude to deny an offer to get in bed with such a pretty lady.”

Claire short-circuits, mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry?”

Alice’s blue eyes twinkle in amusement. “Join me. I’m sure that the front seat is cramped as well.” She presses a blanket into Claire's arms, already leaning back and getting comfortable. Claire catches a flash of the other woman’s chest as she settles and hurriedly turns away, grabbing for her spare top. It’s a ragged black t-shirt, but Claire doesn’t care; she just shoves it at Alice before she can see anything else.

She hears Alice chuckle softly and feels her take the shirt. The hummer shakes gently as she twists into the shirt, wings contorting through the holes cut in the back.

“I’m going to stretch out your shirt,” she laughs. 

“It’s fine,” Claire grunts, spreading her blanket and resolutely not looking at Alice. She’d seen way too much of the woman today; she knows her dreams will have new details tonight. The curve of her spine and her warm skin, the soft swell of-

Claire squeezes her eyes shut, shame overtaking the heat in her stomach. Once again, she was fantasizing at an inappropriate time. You were literally just covered in her blood, Redfield. Get a grip. She clenches her fingers in the blanket and hunches her wing up higher, trying to cover her face. She’s tired, worn out from worrying all day, and then the last hour’s adventure on top of that. But with Alice so close, her body is humming with nervous energy. Claire’s not a particularly sexual person, not even Before; she’d rarely had sex, unable to find the emotional intimacy or physical attraction she wanted. Five years of the apocalypse had eliminated her scant libido as well as stopped her cycle— bittersweet side effects of starving. Beyond that, Claire had neither the time, interest, nor privacy. People tended to fall into relationships headfirst nowadays; when there was no time to savor one another, you had to make the most of your minutes. Claire didn’t even have that luxury; she could barely get away from the convoy long enough to have a private moment, and she already worried about playing favorites. Plus— her Crew were the longest-lived and, consequently, the ones she knew the most. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. 

So why Alice? Why now?

She doesn’t have an answer. But she has time to think about it; she’s not sleeping tonight, not with Alice, so close her wings brush Claire whenever she moves. 

At that exact moment, Alice decides to turn over, which is, for someone with fifteen-foot-long wings, a bit of a production. Alice has to almost get up to maneuver her wings around; one of them ends up dragging across Claire’s. It makes her shiver; she’s glad to have hidden under her wings. She doesn’t know if she could take the sensation on bare skin. Eventually, Alive settles down again, and the Hummer gently sways as she rearranges her blanket into a pillow, the soft shh shh of sliding feathers filling the car. 

Claire curses the heavens and begins to count sheep. 

She only has to get to the mid-four-hundreds before her brain finally begins to conjure up her new nightly torture. She’s lying somewhere--anywhere, it’s not important, not when she feels warm arms curl around her waist and pull her back into silken sheets. Her visitor presses herself against Claire, slotting their bodies together. Claire can feel the visitor’s chest press into her feathers, skin impossibly soft. Her hands clutch tighter at Claire, fingers beginning to creep under the hem of her shirt. Claire laughs and tries to squirm away, but there's nowhere to go, so she just presses further into the other woman. The visitor chuckles as well, her rumbling laughs echoing through Claire. She lifts her lips to Claire’s neck, whispering softly in a familiar voice. Claire isn’t listening; they’re just sweet nothings, so she focuses on tilting her head to bare more skin, trying to entice Alice to kiss her. But Alice isn’t having it; she keeps whispering, gently rocking her. 

“Claire,” she whispers.

Claire presses her hips into the blonde but she doesn’t react.

“Claire,” Alice repeats, more insistent, rocking her even more. 

“Mm,” says Claire.

Alice’s hand is hot on her bare shoulder. “Claire, wake up.”

Claire’s eyes snap open. Alice is no longer wrapped around her; instead, she’s hovering over Claire, a concerned look on her face. “You were whimpering in your sleep.”

Claire wants to die. Claire wants to yell, “fuck the convoy!” and run away into the desert and never see this woman again, but Alice has her pinned, one hand by Claire’s side to prop herself up and the other still resting on Claire’s shoulder. 

“Oh,” says Claire. She kicks herself. 

Alice searches her expression for a moment before pulling away, settling back into her half of the trunk. “Bad dream?” she asks.

“Something like that,” Claire replies. Her throat is so dry she almost expects it to come out as a croak. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.” she rolls back over and tries to ignore her racing heart. 

“You’re fine; I wasn’t asleep. I don’t sleep much anymore.”

“You and me both,” Claire says, closing her eyes.

Ironically, she falls asleep almost immediately, and the Alice-visitor’s arms reach for her again. Claire shudders at the touch but pushes her off, wriggling out of her grasp. 

“Sorry,” the Alice-visitor whispers, and pulls away, leaving her cold.

That was quick, Claire thinks, frowning. She opens her eyes, expecting a different dream scene, and instead catches a flash of tan out of the corner of her eye. Her head turns to follow it without thinking and she finds Alice, hand mid-air, looking uncharacteristically like a deer in the headlights. 

“Were you-?”

“I’m sorry,” Alice whispers, tucking her hand in. “I just- nevermind.”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

Alice stares at her, not sure how to take the statement. Claire wants to say more, wants to ask for more, but the words stick in her throat, so she just turns back on her side, scoots backwards a little bit, and lifts a wing, exposing her side in silent invitation. She hopes Alice understands, hopes she didn’t scare her off. 

She only waits a minute before a warm hand tentatively reaches for her waist, and, finding no resistance, tugs her backward. Claire lets herself go with it; Alice slides her closer until they’re tucked together. It’s not perfect; Claire’s other wing is pinned between them, and Alice is trying not to crowd her too much, hesitant to press in. But her arm is warm and reassuring across Claire’s waist. Claire pulls in her wing, clamping Alice’s arm in place so she can thread their fingers together. The other woman sucks in a breath, then presses closer, and Claire can feel her smile against her neck. She squeezes Alice’s hand; Alice squeezes back. 

Claire lays still for a moment, savoring the feeling of Alice’s warm body behind her, enjoys the press and contact and every slide of skin as they breath and twitch. It’s been so long since she’s touched like this, fully pressed to another and reveling in the feeling. Briefly she thinks of turning over and taking back the borrowed shirt, but Claire finds she doesn’t want to break the tranquility of the moment. It’s not a passionate embrace; it’s tender and vulnerable— Claire never wants to leave.

And then Alice stretches one of her magnificent wings and lays its comforting weight across the two of them, cocooning them in the ashy plumes, and Claire can’t help a few hot tears from sliding over her cheeks— it’s really been too long. 

Alice clutches the younger woman tight, guilty and giddy at the pleasure of touching, and wonders what nightmares haunt someone as remarkable as Claire Redfield.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering, since it hasn't made its way into the narrative yet, Claire's wings are condor-like; big and boxy with pronounced primaries. Her wings are somewhere between deep chocolate and crimson, with creme patches on the underside that are hard to see unless her wings are fully out since they're tucked right under the wing 'shoulder' and are generally obscured by her arms. Also-- in this wing au the feathers extend into the hairline; the natural hair color blends into the wing color. (hence claire's comment on Alice being bleach-blonde).  
> This fic, or at least the wingfic idea, was inspired by Dark Gray by Taste_of_Suburbia and ornaments of the young by SeventhStrife. They're both good, so please check them out! (also I did the art for ornaments, so... go look at it)  
> As always-- if you want more, let me know! I have more planned, but we'll see how far I get. Thanks for reading!


End file.
